


He's Almost You

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 25 Days of Harry and Draco, Draco's a Junior Healer, Harry's an auror, M/M, drarry is endgame of course, episodic for lack of a better way to describe it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: Draco and Harry have become unlikely friends. When the Daily Prophet outs Harry under the headline, THE CHOSEN ONE LOOKING FOR HIS CHOSEN ONE, Draco swears that Harry is going to have wizards beating down his door looking for dates. What he really means is, you should go out with me.Based on this picture:
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 259
Kudos: 616
Collections: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2019





	1. Last Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is my annual Advent fic for [LiveJournal's 25 Days of Draco & Harry](https://slythindor100.livejournal.com/) There are 25 photos, 1 per day, and somewhere in the chapter I have to mention the photo/location
> 
> A few notes about the fic over all:  
> 1\. In theory, there's one chapter a day  
> 2\. In theory, the chapters where Harry goes on the dates will be his POV, while the over arching fic is Draco's  
> 3\. Just assume it's present time, and they're recently gone from Hogwarts  
> 4\. Harry is an Auror; Draco is a Junior Healer at St. Mungo's with Hermione.  
> 5\. The fic is rated Explicit right now, because it will become explicit. If you prefer, subscribe and i'll be sure to clearly post when it achieves its rating.

**December 1, 2018**

It started a year ago—awkwardly, as all things between Draco and Potter had. 

The Attending Healer paired Draco with Granger on a case involving children whose noses were cursed to lengthen and emit flute-like notes when exhaling. The Attending had decided that, since it wasn’t life threatening to the children, they could work on it in addition to their regular patient load. Literally, the only spare 30 minutes they had in 24 hours was lunch, so each day at one o’clock, Draco and Granger met in the Saint Mungo’s canteen and worked during lunch on the mysterious spell damage. For some reason, Granger named it SpongeBob-itis. 

The canteen was abuzz with Christmas, and while Draco appreciated the spirit of the thing, he decidedly did not appreciate the lack of seating at lunch time as the (paid, full time, with benefits) House Elves decorated. He and Granger squeezed into a tiny table in front of the Christmas tree, barely enough room for the two of them and the chair that held their files. Within moments of Draco setting them up to work, Potter appeared with his wild hair and parading around in his scarlet robes. It wasn’t a good look on him, showing off his stupid, fitted Auror robes with sleeves so tight, Draco thought Potter would probably burst the seams if he flexed.

Potter was obviously irritated that she wasn’t ready. “Hermione? Lunch?” he asked with a huff.

Draco rolled his eyes as Potter tapped his foot, waiting. “Oh, do sit down, Potter. We’re in the middle of something, and Granger obviously forgot you had a lunch date.”

“Not a date,” he grumbled looking uncomfortable. “We’re gonna—talk.”

“Ohhhh, that sounds promising.” With his foot, Draco nudged a chair away from the table. “Sit. Talk.”

Potter shifted on his chair and shot Draco looks like he was trying to will him to leave. Finally, he grabbed a patient’s chart—

“Harry! That’s confidential! You can’t—” Hermione grabbed it back before he could look at it.

“Are these the kids from Woking who fucked around and got cable to work in magical houses? Spliced their Muggle neighbors’ connections outside the houses and ran it into theirs?”

“What? I didn’t—I hadn’t heard—” Hermione opened each chart quickly verifying their towns. “Oh my God,” Hermione dropped her head into her hands. “These kids probably watched SpongeBob and—”

“—thought it would be a great idea to have flute noses.”

Draco looked blankly at the two of them.

“Who lives in a pineapple under the sea—” Potter and Granger sang off key, or Merlin-forbid, those were the actual notes.

Potter never did spill his secrets that he came to talk to Granger about. But the next day he showed up at their table in front of the decorated Christmas tree at Saint Mungo’s canteen with a yellow monstrosity under his arm. Granger laughed when Potter handed the stuffed toy to Draco. 

“Thank you and also, what the fuck?” Draco said, holding it at arm’s length.

“It’s SpongeBob!” 

Harry reached both arms around Draco, bracketed him, and squeezed the toy. The nose wiggled and played flute music, but Draco only felt the muscles ripple in Potter’s upper arms, smelled his terrible aftershave which smelled like part locker room soap and part suntan lotion. Draco took another breath of it before asking, “Do you mind, Potter?”

Potter squeaked an _oh,_ like he’d just realized where he was, that he was pressed against Draco’s back, wrapped up in his arms. Potter released Draco and stood up, blush blotting his face. “Sorry.”

Draco waved him off, hoping that his own pale skin didn’t look as ridiculous.

Potter sat down, dragged something from his robe, and showed Draco. “Look. This is SpongeBob. The kids wanted to do this—” 

“That is the single most ridiculous thing I have ever seen,” Draco said as the sponge sounded like a flute. “And what is this?” He waggled the Muggle device at Potter.

Which launched Potter and Granger into a loud discussion about which Muggle devices—like this iPhone—needed to be introduced into wizard society. Draco listened and didn’t understand a single word. But he didn’t mind listening to Potter’s voice, deep and soothing with a nice laugh.

At the end of lunch, Potter insisted Draco take the SpongeBob thing home. He’d dropped it on the extra chair in his office and there it sat. 

After that, Potter barged into their lunch occasionally. He’d sit down as if he’d been invited, didn’t seem to care when his plates popped up on the table on top of confidential folders, and offered his non-medical opinion on their cases. 

It went from occasionally, to a few times a week, to every day. Often, Granger couldn’t make it and Draco would wait for Potter.

It reached critical phase the day Potter _didn’t_ show, and Draco was worried something happened. He searched out Granger, who said Potter was probably just busy, and Draco tried to let it go, until he found himself on Potter’s front step at dinner time, raising his hand to knock, thinking better of it, turning away, turning back, and starting all over again. 

“Malfoy! Hey! You’re a surprise!”

Malfoy screamed in shock when the door opened as he thought about knocking. “Merlin, Potter. Don’t scare me like that.” He gripped his chest, afraid his heart was going to explode.

“D’ya want to come in?” Potter motioned over his shoulder with the wooden spoon that had spaghetti sauce on it, if Draco weren’t mistaken.

“No, I’m gonna—uh—ok, see you tomorrow—or, y’know, not—” Draco stumbled over his words, embarrassed to be caught, mortified to be here checking up on Potter who was obviously fine.

“I’ll be there,” Potter said with a smile. “I had something new called a _Lunch and Learn_ at work.” He used air quotes for this new event. “They fed us terrible sandwiches and wanted us to listen while they went on and on and on about their new wands.”

“Worse than the canteen sandwiches? That itself is a crime!” Draco joked weakly. “Well, I’m gonna—” He jerked his thumb toward the road and left before Potter could say anything else. 

Like maybe, _Don’t come back._

Or worse. _Come in for dinner._


	2. Mama Said You'd Be the Chosen One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dammit, Rita Skeeter...you're not supposed to out someone...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: being outed
> 
> Now we're present day. 
> 
> The title of this chapter is from the song, Woke Up This Morning (Chosen One) which you may recognize from The Sopranos. lol
> 
> based on this photo: 

**December 2, 2019**

**THE CHOSEN ONE LOOKING FOR HIS CHOSEN ONE** by Rita Skeeter

**Word around Diagon Alley is that a certain Saviour of the Wizarding World is looking for his forever friend—with benefits. This witch wishes it could be her, but alas, he’s only looking for Wizards interested in Quidditch, long walks by the ocean, and settling down at the end of a long day in front of a crackling fire with someone he can smooch.**

****

****

**Alas, since it’s not a career, no applications are being accepted. Those interested would do well to visit the Leaky Cauldron any Friday evening, where a certain Wizard is known to frequent.**

Harry threw the newspaper down on the table in disgust, and Draco clucked into his coffee, wondering what had thrown Potter into a tizzy today.

“Don’t start, Malfoy,” Harry said, picking up the paper just so he could rattle it toward Draco. “Did you read this? Did you?”

Draco stared blankly over the rim of his cup. “Potter. Use your brain. You’ve been snarling at the Prophet for the last two hours. How could I have read it?”

Harry rolled his eyes at Draco’s exaggeration. “Nice. We’ve been in this canteen all of 15 minutes, but sure. Listen to this!” He read the four sentences aloud and waited for Draco’s outrage.

Draco cackled, loud enough that one of the senior Healers glared and whispered _shush!_

“You’re laughing!” Harry stared as if Draco had lost his mind. “Why are you laughing?”

“That is the funniest damn thing I’ve heard in a long time.” Draco wiped away tears as he gulped for breath. “You’re going to have every eligible wizard from every country dogging you.”

“No—no, I’m not.” Harry’s shoulders fell as he closed his eyes. 

Draco was pretty sure Potter knew he was right. 

“This is going to be brilliant.” Draco sat up straight in his chair and pulled his appointment calendar from the pocket of his Junior Healer robe. “Are we still good for lunch tomorrow or will you have other plans—” 

“Oh, fuck off, Malfoy.” Harry flipped him off and shook his head when Draco cackled again. 

“Just—do your paperwork,” he said, pointing to the giant pile of folders on Harry’s desk. How Potter was allowed to bring official Auror folders out of the office, Draco would never understand. “Blokes think it’s dead sexy, you know, when—”

“You can double fuck—” Potter began, but they were interrupted by a tall, slender man with dark hair and a three day beard growth that was magnificently groomed.

“Mr. Potter—Harry,” he said, sticking his hand out and making it look elegant and inviting instead of awkwardly knocking something over like Draco would have. “Tyler Thompson. 

Harry stood, knocking the stack of folders over as he shook the bloke’s hand. Harry stumbled over his response. “Nice to—uh—meet you—uh—” 

“Tyler. Call me Tyler. Pleasure to meet you.” 

Oh, and there was the 100-watt smile. Perfect teeth, bright white. How the hell did a Quidditch Beater have such nice teeth. That was a spell _he_ wanted. Draco rolled his eyes again. 

“Yeah, I—uh—I’ve seen you play. That game against the Harpies was brilliant. Why are you here?” 

“My sister just had her first baby.” Thompson pointed in the general direction of the lobby and smiled again.

Draco wanted to cover his eyes from the glare as the canteen lights shone from his teeth.

“Well, uh, it’s nice to meet you—” Harry said, because he had no idea how to hold a conversation.

“I’m Draco Malfoy,” Draco said stood and resisted folding his arms over his chest. He’d done a Psych round. He knew it was a _classic defensiveness pose._ He wasn’t defensive, even if Tyler Thompson had interrupted their lunch.

Thompson turned to Draco and smiled as he shook his hand. He asked all the right questions about being a Junior Healer, and Draco disliked him a little more for that. 

“Well, Harry. If you ever want to come to a Catapults’ match, give me a call.” Thompson tapped Harry’s iPhone, and Draco suspected Thompson’s info was now in Harry’s contacts. 

“Sure! Yeah, that would be great.” Harry waved bye, and Thompson stood a moment, confusion written on his face, before leaving.

Harry continued putting his files back in order as if nothing had happened. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Potter. Tell me what just happened?”

“A guy from the Catapults stopped by to say hi.”

“And?”

“Uh—if I want to go see a match, I can.”

“A date, Potter. He invited you on a date.” Draco dropped his head into his hands. “How are you an Auror but you missed that big clue?” he said into his palms.

“No he—wait, what?” Harry stopped organizing for a moment. “He invited me on a date? Oh, Merlin. I—no—wait—are you sure? Dammit. I really like the Catapults, too.”

Draco reached over and brought out a tin of gingerbread cookies. “Want one?”

_How could Potter miss that “Hi, I’m Tyler Thompson, big Quidditch star, date me” thing?_

Harry looked into the tin. One gingerbread man was decorated in scarlet robes with gold dots for buttons. One was decorated with lime green robes. “Hey. It’s us.”

_Another brilliant observation._

“I was bored last night,” Draco said. He didn’t know why he’d iced them that way. Mostly, he just thought it might make Harry Potter laugh.

“Hey! There’s a tiny lightning bolt scar.” And Potter belly laughed in the hospital’s canteen before taking a bite out of gingerHarry’s head.

Draco smiled. _Mission accomplished._


	3. Strawberry Letter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's going to help Harry find a boyfriend, even if it kills him (slowly, very slowly) as he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based loosely on this picture; 
> 
> The White Kitchen is a real pizza place in Camden. I apologize for using it. LOL.

Potter dropped into a chair at the lunch table and dropped his forehead to the table, right atop Draco’s files.

“Potter, you’re a mess.”

Potter lifted his head from the papers long enough to glare at Draco. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

Draco knew why; he _knew_ why. But he asked anyway, a bridge to his _I told you so!_ “Oh, goodness—why didn’t you get any sleep?” his voice was innocence and sunshine, trying to hold back his glee. 

“The owls. The damn owls!” Potter said into the tabletop. “They tapped at the window all night. And look!” He pulled himself up out of the chair and pointed to spots on his scarlet robes. “They shit all over my uniform!”

Draco bit back a smile. When he could speak without giggling, he asked, “How many?”

“So many.” Potter sat up and threw his head back in anguish, and Draco yanked his files away from him. “They wouldn’t go away. Eventually, I started taking the letters from them. Then I’d go back to bed. Then _more_ would come. I must have a hundred.”

This time, Draco belly laughed loud enough that other Healers stared before going back to their meals. He fanned his face with his hand until he could speak again. “I told you so. I told you yesterday. Every eligible wizard—”

“Oh my God, not just wizards!” Potter leaned forward and whispered, “Witches, too. And the things some of them wrote.”

Draco snickered. He gave up trying to eat his salad, because he would surely choke.

“Don’t laugh. I’m not—I mean, I’ve had sex before, okay? But the things these people said. Do you know what a ‘cream pie’ is?”

Draco had chosen the wrong time to take a sip of his tea. He mis-swallowed and coughed hard. 

“It’s—” Potter continued.

“I know what it is,” Draco said, his voice raspy.

Potter waved his iPhone at Draco. “I had to look it up. That’s—nasty.” 

“So you’re saying you don’t swallow?”

Potter’s face turned bright red. “It’s not—that’s not—cream pie?!”

Draco decided to give Potter a break. “Didn’t the article say _wizards?”_

Potter sat up straight and leaned in again. “It. Didn’t. Matter. The things they said. It was—so filthy.”

Draco patted Potter’s hands. “Poor you. Having people throw themselves at you. Offering sex. It’s a tough life, Potter. I don’t know how you survive.”

Potter stole Draco’s mug and took a long swig of the tepid tea. “Ugh, how can you drink it with all that sugar in it.”

Draco grabbed the mug back and cradled it to his chest. “Who asked you to take it? No one, that’s who.”

Harry checked his watch. “I don’t have time to eat.” He waved away his usual lunch, which disappeared as soon as it appeared. “I overslept because of the damn owls all night, and I have a report due today.”

“We cancelling the cinema tonight, then?” Draco ignored the confusing feeling in his stomach as he asked. 

“No way. I have something super special planned,” Potter said with a huge grin. 

“Oh, Merlin help us. I’m frightened. Legitimately afraid for myself,” Draco said, over dramatically. 

Harry flipped Draco off before turning to leave. 

“Dinner first?” Draco called after him. “And bring some of those letters. We’ll find you a _some_ one.”

Harry waved without looking back, and Draco smiled wanly. He picked up his fork but realized he didn’t feel like eating any more. With a sigh, he gathered his files and headed back to the Spell Damage ward. 

~*~

White Kitchen Pizza was tucked away in a market in Camden, just large enough that they could take up a table for an hour and not feel too bad. It was Potter’s favorite Muggle restaurant, and he always paid the bill so Draco wouldn’t have to deal with the confusing Muggle money.

“Here’s what we’ll do—” Draco said, taking control of the teeny bag Potter pulled from the front pocket of his jeans. He had zero freaking idea how Potter wedged the bag into that pocket, because his jeans were so tight, he wanted to touch them to see if they were painted on. “We’ll sort them into two piles, first.”

Over an everything pizza (“Absolutely no anchovies, Potter. I told you that last time!”), Draco read the letters to Potter, who put them in _No_ and _Maybe_ piles. 

“You: Short, dark hair, hot scar. Me:”

“Nope.” Potter didn’t let Draco finish before taking the letter.

“Ok, next—”

“Draco, we’ve read like a thousand of these already—”

“Three. We’ve read three.” _Dammit, there was a hairy little fish on his pizza._ Draco picked at his dinner, which was easier than looking at Potter’s stupid scar or his stupid hair.

“Isn’t that enough?” Potter took another slice of pizza and demolished it in three bites. 

“No, we need to find you a boyfriend.” Draco pushed his plate aside and picked up the next letter. “Daddy—”

“Nope. Nope. Hard Nope.” Potter ripped the parchment from Draco’s hand and slammed it down onto the pile. “Next.”

Next and next until the _No_ pile teetered and the _Maybe_ pile barely registered. 

The last letter was on pink paper and smelled vaguely of strawberries? _Was that even possible?_ Draco wondered.

“Dude. Sorry that that bitch Rita Skeeter outed you, man. Tha’s not cool. If you wanna, we could grab a brew and kinda shred her. B. T. Dubs, I’m Chad, here from California. Here’s my digits,” Draco read.

“Well—uh—he’s supportive and didn’t make a guess about the size of my dick?” Harry shrugged, and Draco felt ill. This _dude,_ this _broski,_ sounded like some gnarly surfer dude Spicoli wanna be. 

Draco swallowed hard and finished reading. _“PS—I’m a wizard, too!!!_ With three exclamation points, just to show you how crazy coincidental it is.”

Potter took the paper without any comment. He folded it into thirds and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “C’mon, tonight’s movie is gonna be awesome. It’s two traditional Christmas telly cartoons done in something called Claymation. _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ and _Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”_

Draco gathered the letters into a small bundle and, when no one was paying attention, he cast a quick _Incendio_ on the lot. Potter paid the bill, and when he came back, he grinned at Draco. “You’re going to love these two movies. Should we get popcorn or—”

As they walked the few blocks to the cinema, Potter rambled on about the snacks and the plot including that many people now felt the Rudolph story was inherently able-ist.

All Draco knew was that Potter had taken one of the letters and was going to contact the guy’s _digits,_ or whatever one did to someone’s digits. And that soured Draco’s mood.

Ok, no. He wasn’t sour. He was angry, furious that Potter could find anything in that mangled string of letters purporting to be English that was worth listening to. 

Draco’s fingernails were cutting circles into his palms. Why did he come up with this idea?

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to face the fact that he had a tiny crush on Harry. But it didn't matter, because Potter had blokes from all over the world writing to him, and Draco was pretty sure none of the were just Junior Healers from Wiltshire.


	4. Cold As Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, Chad doesn't know much, and definitely not how to ice skate.
> 
> based on this pic: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Harry goes on dates, those chapters will be from his POV. This is one such chapter. 
> 
> The chapter title comes from the Foreigner song, [Cold As Ice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rAESnjvz3lQ)

“Harry?”

Jesus. He’s hot. Like, model hot. White blond hair, the whitest I’ve ever seen. Big, shining smile. And really underdressed for ice skating. 

“Harry, right? Red and yellow scarf and curly hair?” Chad sounds unsure now, and as he backs away, I hold onto his upper arm. It feels hard through his thin coat, like he works out when he’s not surfing. 

“Yeah, I’m—uh—Harry, yeah.” I smile as genuinely as I can considering I’m not sure why I’m here, except that Malfoy seemed to think Chad was worthwhile, and Malfoy had smiled, and then I just wanted to make him happy. 

You know, like a good friend would.

“Thanks for coming, Chad.” 

I shove my hand out to shake his hand. He comes at me, ready to throw two arms around me in a bro hug. I wind up stabbing his gut. 

He laughs but I can tell he doesn’t think it’s funny. 

“I brought an extra pair of skates if you need them,” I say, and almost before I finish my sentence, he’s got his wand out, and I lunge for him. “This is a Muggle skating rink, you idiot. Put your wand away.”

“Dude, whatever. I was just gonna transfigure my shoes into skates. You don’t have to, like, attack me.”

“Sorry. Sorry.” I shrug. Nothing else to say, right?

His transfiguration is good, but his skating is shit. I glide away and skate back, and he’s still standing on the snow. “C’mon. Wanna race?”

Turns out, he’s never ice skated before. 

“But I got you, fam. Can’t be harder than standing on a long board, riding a wave.” 

Chad steps confidently on the ice and is on his ass before I even get out, _Be careful._

He gets to his hands and knees, tries to stand and his feet _slideslideslideslide_ and he’s down again. 

Ok, so I snicker. I didn’t mean to, but he just looked so stupid. 

Turns out, I shouldn't have laughed.

“This is the worst fucking date,” Chad says as he crawls off the ice. “All I really wanted was a blowie. I figured, if I was all nice, maybe you’d blow me or let me blow you.”

He rips his wand out of the cargo pocket of his chinos, mumbles some spell with a lot more f-words than I think it’s supposed to have in it, and storms off.

Turns out, he’s not so good looking after all, not when he’s all ugly cursing and yelling. 

If Draco was here, he’d be rolling on the ground, getting snow in his jacket and hair and down his trousers, laughing his ass off.

Dammit.

I coulda gotten a “blowie” out of this.

Wait til I tell Malfoy.


	5. Tell Me Something Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is an old, old man, ready for bed at 8:30pm--until someone comes knocking on his door.
> 
> based on this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I know. adults in a healthy relationship should communicate and not assume. But we don't always do what we're supposed to do, and these two numbnuts aren't in a relationship, are they. 
> 
> The chapter title comes from this old song, [Tell Me Something Good](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OB4JDJiet5M)

Draco was alone in his home in Muggle Chelsea, plate of leftover take-away on his lap and feet up on the coffee table, warming in front of the fireplace. 

He’s alone a lot. 

It’s not that he didn’t have the chance to date, mind you. It’s just that, he’s a Junior Healer. And everyone knew they have almost no time to sleep in 24 hours. How was he supposed to find time to go out with someone?

 _You go to the cinema with Potter once a week,_ the tiny voice in his mind provided helpfully.

“Shut the fuck up,” Draco said and shoved another forkful of cold Pad Thai into his mouth. 

And he didn’t need to date. His life was already rich and full. He went shopping for antiques for his home. He took long walks in the Physic Gardens where he may or may not steal leaves for his tiny Potions lab in the cellar. He visited the Chelsea Library. The lovely owner of Rococo Chocolates knew him by name and always slipped a few extra pieces into Draco’s bag—along with his phone number one time.

 _And the cinema with Potter. Don’t forget that._

Okay, so what. He and Potter went to the cinema when they could _(your one night off a week)._ They got dinner beforehand _(and Potter always pays)._

“Yeah, but that’s because of the Muggle money. It’s—confusing,” Draco said into the silent house.

_(It’s not confusing when you go to Rococo’s or the farmer’s market. I’m just sayin’.)_

Draco scrubbed his face with his hand. He needed more friends or a quieter conscience. 

_Sure. Shut me down when you don’t want to hear what I’m saying._

“Fuck.”

He strode to the kitchen and scraped the cold food into the bin. His stomach was a swirling mess; hopefully, he didn’t have food poisoning from the Pad Thai.

The clock chimed 8:30. That was a perfectly normal time for an adult to go to bed, wasn’t it? Besides, his shift tomorrow started at 7 am. He went through his night routine by rote, washing his plate and fork. Vanishing the trash. Extinguishing the fire. Setting the wards. 

Not that his father knew where he lived; he didn’t. But Draco never took any chances. 

He finished warding the Floo and turned to the front door. Before he could begin, Draco heard a timid knock at the front door.

Maybe it was the wind. Probably was. That made sense. It’s not like anyone ever came over.

But there it was again.  
He cracked open the door to peek out, and there stood Potter. 

His hair was messy, wind blown and wild. His cheeks and nose were red and rough, like he’d been outside tonight.

“Let me in?”

He opened the door enough for Potter to step through, then Draco shoved his head through and looked outside, like he thought someone was pranking him. No one else was there.

“You’ve never been here before,” Draco said in surprise.

“You’ve never invited me,” Harry answered with a smirk. 

“I didn’t invite you this time,” Draco smirked back but led Potter to the lounge. With a flick of his wand, the fire roared, warming the room.

Looking unsure, Harry sat on the edge of a wing chair and stripped off his Gryffindor scarf and gloves.

“The chair doesn’t bite, Potter,” Draco said, settling onto the couch next to the wing chair. The fire was warm, and the flames cast shadows on the wall. The room felt cozier, smaller and more intimate than before. 

Potter sat back and unzipped his jacket. “Remember the letter from Chad? I went out with him tonight—”

“I haven’t had dinner. Have you had dinner?” Draco interrupted and headed to the kitchen. He heard a mumbled “what the fuck,” but he didn’t hesitate. He marched into the kitchen and pulled the egg carton and cheddar cheese from the refrigerator, put them on the counter, found the frying pan he was looking for and put them on the counter, hunted for the loaf of bread before finding it in the pantry next to the cereal, and put that on the counter.

Harry leaned against the counter between Draco and the fridge. “Anyway, he was—"

“Scrambled eggs on toast alright with you?” Draco asked and began cracking eggs into the pan. 

“Yeah, I—sure. Chad was—” 

Draco nudged Potter away from the counter and rattled through the drawer for a whisk. When he (very loudly) found it, he began scrambling the eggs.

He felt manic, like he couldn’t stop himself from being an asshole. Why was he being like this?

 _Oh, I think we all know why,_ his conscience offered. 

He pushed Potter out of the way in the other direction and used the four slice Muggle toaster that he’d charmed to work with magic. 

“Can I finish my story now?” Potter asked with a huff. 

Draco nodded. He gave it a 7 out of 10 that the words ‘happily ever after’ were involved.

“—twatwaffle. Total twatwaffle. Couldn’t skate, had like, zero interest in getting to know me.”

“Really?” Draco stopped and stared at Harry. His eyes caught the kitchen light and looked green, not like emeralds, but like the bright grass in spring. 

“You’re so weird tonight. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Draco grinned as he stirred the eggs in the pan. “Nothing at all.”


	6. Hazy Shade of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt 
> 
> Draco has no idea what to do with Potter in his home. He does know that, if Potter doesn't want him, then he's going to be a great friend and find someone good for Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry Draco is sad. And Stupid. 
> 
> The title of the chapter comes from the Simon and Garfunkel song,

Draco plated the eggs and stacked the toast onto a dish, all the while thinking about Harry’s eyes. How he’d never noticed they were bright green, like the promise of things to come in the spring. Like new blades of grass and the daffodils bravely pushing through the frozen ground and green like—”

Draco handed Potter a plate and realized he was staring at Draco.

“Eggs,” Draco blurted. “Green eggs.”

_Great. Now he’s going to think you’re either poisoning him or a connoisseur of children’s literature._

“Green eggs?” Potter gave his plate the once over. “They look fine to me?”

Draco stumbled for an explanation. “Well, of course they’re fine, Potter. It’s not like I’m trying to poison you. I was—uh—” 

_Go on then. You already look stupid._

Draco sighed and said the only thing he could come up with. “Green Eggs and Ham. It’s a book my nanny used to read to me.”

“A nanny?” Potter teased as he sat at the table. He cleared the piles of day-old post and newspapers and made a spot for his plate. “Of course you had a nanny. But she read you Muggle books?”

“Dr. Seuss? He wasn’t a Muggle. Purebred wizard, he.” Draco took a big bite of eggs and realized he was starving. Much better than the cold Pad Thai.

_The food or the company?_

“No. Way. That’s Muggle literature.” Potter pointed his fork at Draco. “Why are you lying?” He narrowed his eyes and peered at Draco. “You can’t fool me.”

“Oh, Potter, please. You are pathetically easy to fool. You can barely see what’s right in front of you. But in this case, I’m not lying. Dr. Seuss was a wizard. Who else could write nonsense and pass it off as plot? Not in a box. Not with a fox. Not in a house. Not with a mouse.”

“I would not eat them here or there. I would not eat them anywhere. I would not eat green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.” Potter finished with a flourish, a roll of his hand and a shallow bow.

“Brilliant, as always,” Draco said with fake sincerity. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Potter laughed, a good belly laugh, deep and long until he can’t breathe, and Draco joined in like he didn’t have a choice because he didn’t. Potter’s laugh winds around him and draws him in until they’re both wheezing, pressing out words.

“Fox—box.”

“Rain—train!”

“Let me be!”

“Malfoy, you’re insane.” Potter wipes the tears from his cheeks, and he looks beautiful. Pure joy with no worry, like the weight of his work slid away and left him carefree. 

“I may be insane, but at least I didn’t go out with a bloke named Chad.”

Potter hiccupped in a last laugh and said, “You know what he wanted? A _blowie.”_

“What the hell is a blowie?”

Potter stared at Draco with one raised eyebrow until he understood. “He called it a blowie? What was he? Twelve?” Draco’s laughter threatened to overflow again, but he swallowed it back. 

_Imagine giving Potter a blowie,_ his conscience said sweetly, innocence dripping from its imaginary voice. _Go ahead. Imagine unzipping—_

“No!” Draco said aloud and covered it unconvincingly with a cough. 

“No, he really said it,” Potter said, and Draco was thankful that he hadn’t questioned what the fuck Draco was saying. 

They were silent for a moment, and Draco didn’t know what Potter was thinking about, but he, himself, was definitely not thinking of what Potter’s face would look like when he came. 

He looked away from Potter _Why? Do you think he can read your thoughts?_ and when he looked back, Potter was watching Draco. His eyes, so green before, seem to be mostly pupil, dark and deep, and Draco felt overwhelmed, like he had no idea what to do when Potter looked at him like that. 

Draco cleared his throat, and Potter looked away, and suddenly it felt to Draco like the temperature in the room fell hard and fast. 

He didn’t like it, the way it felt like loss and emptiness. 

And in some way, it was tied to Potter.  
“I guess I’ll um, clear the plates,” Draco said because he didn’t know what else to say, and gathered the plates like a Muggle. 

“Do you want to have tea or something?” Potter asked. “We could sit by the fireplace.”

“I really should go to bed. Early shift tomorrow and everything.” Draco rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink for later. 

“Oh.” Potter shoved his hands into the pocket of his jeans. “Okay. I guess I’ll go.”

_Sounds a little disappointed, don’t you think?_

Draco nodded and all he knew was that he didn’t really want Potter to go, but Potter wasn’t interested in him. He had all those letters from blokes all over the country. He had a bloody Quidditch star ask him out. 

Draco was just some Junior Healer, making next to no money, with a really dicey past. 

“I’ll walk you to the door.” He trailed Harry to the front door and opened it for him. 

“Still on for Tuesday cinema?” Harry asked. 

“Sure. Bring the new letters from guys wanting to go out with you, and we can go through them at dinner.” If Harry wouldn’t date him, the least he could do was find Harry someone he deserved.

Potter nodded and walked carefully down the snowy stoop. He didn’t look back as he walked away up the pavement. Didn’t stop to look at the pastel homes in his row or the Christmas lights above the street. 

The snow usually made Draco feel like a little kid again; tonight, it just made him feel old.


	7. You're So Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Harry is kidnapped by his date, who is fully versed in Harry's personal history.  
> If this is triggering to you, feel free to skip the chapter. 
> 
> based on these two prompts:
> 
> and 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using two photo prompts because to me they went together. And I'm a pic behind.
> 
> the title is pulled from the Radiohead song, Creep.

A teeny owl, tiny like the one Sirius gave Ron that year, is perched on my windowsill when I get home from Malfoy’s. 

Some tiny part of me thought, maybe, if I told him about Chad wanting to blow me, that he would volunteer. Get on his knees, unzip my trousers, and suck me off til I came down his throat. Or finished on his face. And maybe he’d call me Harry. 

But he talked again about finding me someone. I’m being stupid, thinking he’s into me. So when the tiny owl’s parchment is from a guy who just wants some fun, to do something cool, I owled him back. Sure, why not. I have nothing better to do.

He sends me a return owl, to meet him at 6 the next night inside King’s Cross by Platform 9 ¾. I shrug, and again. Why not. I have nothing better to do. 

John. His name is John.

Monday night, he’s waiting for me. Dark curly hair and glasses, round like mine. He’s got a Gryffindor scarf on, but I don’t remember him from Hogwarts. 

“Hi. Good to meet you. I’m John.” He shakes my hand and before I know it, I’m side along apparating. I know from that familiar, sickening feeling as the imaginary cord pulls me from my core.

I land with a stumble and fall face first onto hard, cold grass. Before I stand, I take a deep breath. I know this place, the honeysuckle aroma of heather and the coconut of Gorse. I jump up. “First, what the fuck? You can’t just kidnap me.”

“I didn’t kidnap you, Harry. Can I call you Harry? Oh. My. God. Look at your lightning scar. It’s really there. I mean, I knew it was there, but some of the books say it’s just an urban myth, a legend, that you have a lightning bolt shaped scar, not quite centered over your right eye. Can I touch it?”

“Again, what the fuck?”

I don’t even know what to say. He was perfect in the letter. Loves the Chudley Cannons and Muggle football and treacle tarts. Was raised by Muggles who treated him like shit. 

John grabs my arm. “We’re at Hogwarts, the scene of your greatest triumph. Will you walk me through the day you killed He Who Must Not Be Named?”

His eyes are shining too bright, and he’s just too—eager. _He was perfect in the letter…_

“Fuck. You’re a fucking groupie,” I say peeling John’s fingers off me. “I should have checked you out instead of just saying yes.”

“I’m not a groupie. I’m your number one fan. I can’t believe I’m on a date with you. My friends said you’d never say yes, but you did. Look, I even have a Hogwarts letter for you.” He reaches into his pocket, and I grab my wand. But yeah, he’s got a Hogwarts letter addressed to 

**Mr. H. Potter  
The Cupboard Under the Stairs  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging,  
Surrey**

I don’t know whether to punch him for kidnapping me or to try to get him help. Draco would know whether he needs a Mental Health Healer. “Hey, um, this is great and all, but I just got word that there’s a serious case I have to get back for. Uh, Bosses. You know how they can be. Don’t care if you’re on a date or uh, y’know—”

“I get that. You’re Harry Potter. You have to uphold the Wizarding laws of our great nation,” John says, with his hand over his heart. 

Without another word, I disapparate as fast as I can, before he changes his mind. I know he’s probably harmless, but I’ve seen too many people pretend they’re kind while hiding a weapon in their jacket. 

I’ve never been so happy to see the peeling wallpaper of Grimmauld Place in my life. I strengthen the wards, then strengthen them again. 

Before I fall asleep, I amuse myself by thinking of all the ways I could get even with Rita Skeeter, up to and including death.


	8. I Care For No One Else But You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 
> 
> Draco is quarantined and decides to do the mature adult thing and write Potter about his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at the long slow burn. I really do.

Wizard Scabies: a dermatologic condition caused by an eight-legged microscopic mite. They’re highly contagious and spread easily from person to person through close physical contact.

The single most frightening words you can say to anyone who works in hospital. 

“So don’t come by until you hear from me,” Draco texted Harry on Hermione’s phone. “We’re quarantined until we can contain it.”

He slid the phone across the table to Hermione and scratched at his wrist and shoulder and neck. And then again. And again. 

“You’d think with all the thousands of years, wizard medicine would have solved scabies by now,” Hermione said, clenching her fist to stop herself from clawing at her arm. “Do we have to do everything ourselves?”

All Draco could say was _ugggh!_

The phone vibrated against the table, and Draco reached for it. 

“Do you mind? It could be for me!” 

At least that’s what Draco assumed she said, but she was biting her bottom lip and trying to talk at the same time. 

“Are you telling me Weasley has enough dexterity to spell and type at the same time? I don’t believe it.”

Apparently, Hermione wasn’t too itchy to flip Draco off. She picked up the phone, read the text, rolled her eyes, and handed it to Draco. “Don’t say it.”

“Told you so.”

“Was looking forward 2 movies 2morrow nite—text when U R okay.”

Draco smiled at Potter’s abysmal typing skill.

“What’s going on between you and Harry?” Hermione asked, patting Draco’s hand. “Is everything OK? We won’t be here _too_ long.”

“Going on--why do you--nothing’s going on!”

“Well the two of you have been together over a year, and I was wondering how Rita Skeeter’s article affected your relationship.”

Draco leaned forward into Hermione‘s face. “I’m going to Healer Jenkins and letting her know you need to be off the diagnostic team because your detective skills are shit. There’s no ‘us,’ there never was an ‘us’ and most certainly not for the past year.”

Hermione looked confused. “Harry said the same thing. With your weekly dates and all the time you spend together, I assumed he was lying.”

“No. And the hag’s article doesn’t affect me because who Potter dates doesn’t matter to me.”

His conscience snorted.

“Really? Alright. Good. Because I was thinking Sohrob from the fourth floor would be a good match for him.”

“I know him. He’s a terrible match,” Draco sputtered. “He’s all muscle-bound and—dull. Potter wants someone with intelligence not someone who grunts when you say Good Morning. And another thing—” By the time Draco finished with his screed, Hermione was grinning.

“Good to know it doesn’t matter to you.”

“Fuck you, Granger.“

“Listen, Draco,” she laid her hand on his. “I can help if you want. I can talk to Harry.”

His chest deflated, and his shoulders slumped. “You can’t. There’s nothing to help. He’s not interested.“

“Asked him, did you? Had a mature, frank discussion about your friendship, and what you would hope to see it become?“

“Yes!“ Draco said defiantly.

His conscience snorted louder.

“Alright.” Hermione piled her papers and shoved them in her bag. “But since we’re stuck here a few more days, maybe owl him. Sometimes it’s easier to write about our feelings than talk about them face to face.”

_She’s not wrong,_ his conscience poked.

That night, when Draco was too tired to work any longer, he transfigured his desk into a bed—a very hard bed—and dug out a clean parchment and new quill equipped with Talk-to-Quill. 

_  
**Dear ~~Potter~~ Harry,**  
_

_**Hope this finds you well. I am fine, except for being itchy everywhere. I’m sorry I’ll miss the cinema tomorrow night. I enjoy that. Seeing Muggle films is terrific.** _

“Teriffic,” he said aloud, mocking his own words and slammed the half written letter to the bed. The quill hovered over the stack of papers, waiting to get back to work.

_Jesus, you sound like an 80 year old grandma._

“What am I supposed to do? Write, Dear Potter, I want to fuck you into the mattress so hard and so long that you can’t even think about getting on your Auror broom tomorrow.”

_Oh, hell yes. Brilliant._  


“Never mind. Just pack up the paper and post the letter to Potter.” Draco waved his hand dismissively, and the paper and quill returned to the filing cabinet; the letter folded itself into an airplane and took off down the chute for outgoing post. 

Draco tossed and turned in bed thinking about the letter. It wasn’t much, more like an opening gambit to find a way to tell Potter how he felt. 

“The Cinema is terrific,” he laughed before falling asleep. 

~*~

“Healer Malfoy? Healer Malfoy, sir?”

Draco stirred slowly at the disembodied voice in his room until he remembered where he was; he bolted upright and began dressing as quickly as possible. “Yes, what is it? I’m here.”

“Sir, please come to the registration area. Auror Potter is here and is insisting he speak with you.”

Draco’s voice was muffled as he pulled his jumper over his head. “Tell that—”

_knob?_

“Tell Auror Potter I’ll be down in a moment,” he said, scratching at his wrist and forearm through the jumper sleeve.

“Good, sir. He’s quite—upset, so do hurry.”

Draco thrust his bare feet into his shoes and disapparated to the empty lobby. 

“Potter, what the fuck? I told you not to come because—”

Potter grabbed Draco by the front of his jumper

_No, no, no! You’re going to stretch out the cashmere!_

And kissed the breath out of Draco. 

Potter pulled back slowly, and Draco felt dazed, like the world was in slow motion around him. 

“Did you mean this?” Potter asked, waving the letter at Draco.

“Well, yes,” Draco said, clueless why Potter stormed over based on his letter. And why he’d kissed Draco. Which, was very nice. “The cinema _is_ terrific.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Draco. Did you mean this?”

The registration witch was enthralled, watching this play out in front of her. When Draco realized, he grabbed Potter and said, “Hold on.” 

He side-along apparated Potter to his office.

His emotions were a tumble of _fuck yeah_ and _fuck no,_ a little angry and a lot aroused. “Now tell me what the hell is going on,” Draco said.

“Did you mean this, yes or no?” Potter said at the same time.

Draco took the letter and read it out loud.

**Dear Potter, I want to fuck you into the mattress so hard and so long that you can’t even think about getting on your Auror broom tomorrow.**


	9. I Got a Touch So Good, So Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt: 
> 
> The bed is the elephant in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is as explicit as they come. (heh heh)
> 
> Yes, I listened to [Leslie Odom Jr's version of Good To You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_wSL0jhkx3U) on loop. You should, too.
> 
> oh. I have a really really bad habit of slipping into present tense when I write sex scenes. I think I caught all of them, but, just know I know. 
> 
> Also, I didn't forget the scabies. I just conveniently paused them.

“What? I didn’t—I—”

“Please, don’t lie.” 

“It wasn’t suppose to be this letter. You weren’t supposed to know. We’re _mates.”_

Potter cupped Draco’s cheek. His hand was soft and wide, and Draco leaned into his touch. Potter inches closer, bodies not quite pressed together, but so close. With the desk transfigured into a bed, there was no room to move. 

The bed. 

The bed. 

It took up every thought he had, him and Potter naked on the bed, sweaty, tangled in the sheets. Moving slowly at first until need took over.

“Can I kiss you?” Potter whispered.

Draco couldn’t speak, didn’t want to open his mouth, afraid logic would spill out. He nodded.

“Good,” Harry said. He moved slowly, like every second counted, like Draco was precious and perfect.

He brushed his nose against Draco’s, and this was the world: their lips close but not touching, their shaky breaths matching, Harry’s thighs pressed against his, and the bed. 

That’s all there was. 

Draco kissed Harry, closed the gap without softness or finesse. He kissed him with white, hot need that overpowers sense, that says, _The bed is right here._

“Harry—” Draco breathed when they broke apart.

“You never call me that,” Harry said, touching Draco’s lips with his thumb. “Say it again.”

“Harry.” 

In between one heartbeat and the next, Draco’s lying on the bed. Harry kneels over him, straddling his torso, and there’s no mistaking that Harry’s into this. 

Draco reaches out, drags his fingers over the bulge in Harry’s trousers, and Harry closes his eyes and shudders. “Fuck. God. Do it again.”

“Take your clothes off.”

Harry scrambled off the bed, careful not to hurt Draco. He stripped out of his clothes until he was naked, and fuck, his cock was long, thick enough he knew it would burn, and Draco wanted it. 

“Christ, Harry. You’re beautiful.”  
Harry grinned as he ran a hand down his abdomen, across the lines formed from thousands of hours of Auror training. “I’m gonna take your clothes off and then blow you. I’ve never done it before, but I can figure it out.”

Draco moaned. It had been months, years, _decades,_ since he’d had a blow job, since he’d come from someone else, with someone else. 

Harry slid Draco’s slippers from his bare feet. Unzipped his trousers, and Draco’s cock jerked when Harry dragged his fingers across it. 

Harry was careful—almost to the point that Draco wanted to make him hurry, but when he was fully naked, he knew it was worth it. Harry crawled up Draco, stopping to kiss his calves, the inside of his thighs, to mouth at his balls. 

Draco groaned in approval. “Don’t stop. Please.”

Harry settled himself between Draco’s legs and lapped his way up Draco’s cock, which twitched each time the tip of Harry’s tongue touched him. Draco worked to keep his hips on the bed, when what he wanted to do was feel the wet and warmth inside Harry’s mouth, to fuck it til he came.

“Please. Harry.”

Harry took Draco in, and Draco almost came just from being there. It’s too much and not enough, and he wanted to move but he can’t move. He breathed deep, counted to ten to gain control, to let Harry be in charge. 

What Harry lacked in technique, he made up for in enthusiasm. He pulled off for a moment, and Draco whined, tried to pull Harry back down. But Harry only smiled; his lips were red and swollen, and _Fuck. That was hot._

When Harry went back down on him, Draco raked his fingers through Harry’s hair, pulled at the curls. That hair—he’d always wanted to touch it, twirl it around his fingers. Draco felt the coil of orgasm, tightening, growing, until he knew he was too close. He pushed at Harry’s head, but Harry stayed, moved his hand in counterpoint to his mouth.

“Ha—Harry. Stop. I’m gonna—” 

Harry stayed.

Draco climaxed with Harry’s name his only words. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, and he doesn’t care if he never takes a full breath again. He struggled to tell Harry to give him a second, that he would take care of him in a moment, but Potter didn’t listen. 

He leaned over Draco, one palm by the side of his head and with the other, stroked himself, twisting wrist to gather the wetness from the head, stroked himself until he came on Draco’s bare chest. 

Potter collapsed on the bed next to Draco, kissed his shoulder before snuggling in. “I’ll clean us in a mo. I just have to—” 

Potter was warm against Draco, his body a pleasant weight next to his. This was what he’d wanted—more than he’d _known_ he could want or have.

Potter’s breathing slowly evened out, and Draco knew he’d fallen asleep. He should get up and clean them off, or at least perform a cleansing spell. But his wand was on the floor and the loo was even further away. And maybe, in the morning, they could just clean up in the shower before getting dirty again. 

Draco fell asleep curled into Potter, stickiness be damned.


	10. I'm Almost Me Again, He's Almost You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on this photo 
> 
> Harry Flees, and Draco knows exactly why he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the quill wasn't supposed to send the wrong letter. But I have a strict Advent policy that I do what my brain says to. But That wasn't the fic I set out to write 25 chapters about, as you can probably tell by the title. I'm going to end this fic at chapter 12, and start a new one with the rest of the prompts. I hope you'll follow that one, too. 
> 
> ps: don't worry. I only write happy fics. 
> 
> This chapter title is from Hozier's song, Almost.

Draco felt the mattress dip. Felt Harry’s lips on his.

~*~

It was the sleep of the dead. 

Or a Junior Healer. 

One of the two. 

As a child, Draco had been a picky sleeper much like _Goldilocks and the Three Dragons._ This bed was too hard; that pillow was too soft; the wrinkles in the sheets hurt his legs when he pressed against them. Once he entered the Junior Healer program, he learned quickly to sleep wherever and however. 

And through anything.

~*~

“Draco! I found it!”

Hermione flung open his office door. “I found the cure for the scabies!”

“Hermione, what the hell time is—it’s still dark for Merlin’s sake—Harry?”

With his eyes still closed, he patted the mattress next to him, looking for a knee or a hand, but the space is empty. The only thing that remains is an impression in the pillow and the tumbled blankets next to Draco. His heart broke, but he willed himself to hold the shards together. 

_Maybe he went to the loo—_

“Get up so I can—what are you looking for?” 

“Harry?” Draco said, more to himself than to Hermione. He sounded plaintive, like someone lost calling for help. 

“Oh, I just saw him in the lobby. I guess he was here on a case. He was in a hurry to leave, but I stopped him to perform the scabies spell.”

Hermione talked with her wand the way other people talked with their hands, and Draco was always afraid she was going to perform accidental magic. Right now, he wished she could perform a _hide him away forever/die of embarrassment_ spell. 

“Draco! Did you get it? I found the cure! Since we couldn’t leave, I spent the night in the hospital library reading Medieval spell books. Turns out, scabies was a big problem back then—”

Draco sat up in the bed, careful to keep the blanket over his lap. “Wait—Potter left?”

Hermione stared at Draco, and he felt her brain racing, grabbing and discarding information, until she said, “Oh my god, you and Harry were—” 

“He left? I can’t believe it.” He couldn’t hold the shards together any longer. He thought maybe, just maybe, he’d meant something to Potter. That he wasn’t just a quick fuck and a ‘Bye, see ya later.’

“I guess I was wrong,” Draco said aloud, shaking his head. 

“It was probably something important,” Hermione said, her voice unsure. “Harry’s not like that.” 

“Unless he just had sex with his best mate.” He felt bitterness and anger nipping at the edges of his sorrow. “Can you do the spell so I can get to work?”

Draco didn’t understand the words; they sounded almost like English, but not quite. When Hermione finished speaking and tapped his wrist with the tip of her wand, his itchiness disappeared. It was a blissful peace, silent and—not itchy.

“Look,” Hermione began cautiously, as if she already knew he wouldn’t believe her. “I’ve only seen him move like that when he has a work emergency.”

He didn’t answer, and she left. The _snick_ of the door shutting sounded overwhelming in the silence of his office. 

_Could be a thousand reasons he left. You’re catastrophizing—_

“Shut the fuck up.”

_He’ll probably owl you later with a logical explanation?_

Maybe, Draco thought, but he’s afraid that the logic is illogical, and that it’s really because they made a colossal mistake. He had no loo in his room, so he performed rudimentary cleaning spells and hesitated when he got to his chest, like it was the only proof he had of the night before. 

The wonderful, beautiful, totally wrong should not have happened, night before. 

With a sigh, Draco finished cleaning and sanitized his clothes from the day before. 

~*~

Draco forced himself not to check his office every hour for an owl carrying some kind of explanation. Once his shift began, that wasn’t an issue. Hermione taught him the Scabies Spell and the two of them performed it over and over until each person in the hospital had been cured. 

His first break was lunch. Once he checked his office (No Potter, no owl), he made his way to the cafeteria (No Potter, no owl), he waited until he finally gave in and ordered. 

No Potter. No owl. 

It took the entire shift to de-scabie every person at Saint Mungo’s. Draco dragged himself home, thinking only of a hot bath and a warm bed. And hoping Potter was a frozen lump on his doorstep. It would serve him right for what he did.  
There was no owl that night at home and no frozen Potter. 

And then he was furious, and any desire for a bath and his bed were consumed by his anger. He recklessly disapparated on his front stoop and reappeared on the pavement in front of Potter’s house. He wanted to yell until Potter opens the door, shout that he’s a coward and to open the fucking door. 

With all of his willpower, he chose not to humiliate ~~Potter~~ himself and didn’t yell. He did, however, knock really loudly. 

No one answered. Potter was doing a great job of avoiding him. 

_Maybe he’s not home?_

“Yeah,” Draco muttered as he stomped off the stoop and strode home. Except for the one light burning on the second floor of the building. 

A hot bath. A warm bed. 

Tomorrow was another day. Maybe it wouldn’t suck as much as today had. 

He passed a home with a Christmas tree brightly lit in the front yard, mocking him.

“You know what, tree? Fuck you. Fuck you so hard and your Happy Christmas.”

~*~

The next day is the same. He checks for owls, waits to order lunch, walks by Potter’s house after work. The day after. And the day after. No Potter, no owl. The only logical answer he has is that Potter is avoiding him. And by Friday, he’s done. 

“Are you coming to the Holiday party tonight?” Hermione asks as she hangs her robe in her locker. “It’s not going to do you any good to sit home and mope. Besides, we’re all supposed to be there.”

Draco slams his locker shut. He’s not moping or mourning or waiting. What he is now is angry. He’s furious with Potter to the point that his chest hurts when he thinks about it. Potter could fucking man-up and just say he made a mistake. It might take time, but they could find new ground and fashion a new basis for their friendship. And Draco would get over this stupid crash. He’d rather have Potter for a friend than not at all. 

When he Floo’d home, he scrounged for a decent piece of parchment and a working quill. He scratched out, 

**Potter, I’m sorry. What we did was wrong, but there’s no reason for you to have left without talking to me. Let’s deal with this, but do me the respect of not hiding from me.**

He signed it and sent his owl on its way. 

Draco dressed in his best trousers and linen tuxedo shirt, including cuff links with his French cuffs. He tied his holiday green bowtie before sliding on his best tuxedo robe.

He picked up a pinch of Floo powder (the emerald color did not remind him of Potter’s stupid eyes), but before he could toss it into the flames, his owl tap-tapped. Draco rushed to the window and untied the parchment as carefully as he could, his heart racing with excitement. 

As Draco unrolled the paper, his heart fell. It was his own letter, the one he’d sent to Potter.

“Fuck this,” Draco growled, shutting the window. He gave his owl a treat before Flooing to the party. There were plenty of fish in the sea. He wasn’t the only prize in the box of Cracker Jacks. Or whatever the saying was. There were plenty of hot blokes who worked at the hospital. 

He’d find one tonight, drag him into a closet, and erase the memory of Potter. He wouldn't be Potter, but maybe, _almost_ would be good enough.


	11. Blood, Gallons of the Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brought to you by this photo prompt:  
> 
> 
> Hermione convinces Draco go to the annual staff Christmas Party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: MAJOR INJURY
> 
> I've cut this fic to 12 chapters because it's not the fic I meant to write, and I can't take this one any further. Thank you for following, and I hope you'll follow the one I'll be starting Saturday with the rest of the prompts. 
> 
> This title comes from [My Chemical Romance song, Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uX3Gw82f6GU)

The dark, dingy back meeting room had been transformed into a magical Winter Market, complete with (warm) snow and store fronts that offered different dinner fare or kitschy party keepsakes.

Granger was chatting with Healer Jenkins. Sohrob from the fourth floor stood awkwardly at Granger’s elbow; she’d probably dragged him along, on a mission to set him up with someone. 

Maybe Draco was that someone. He’d said Sohrob was musclebound and dull, and he wasn’t wrong. But Merlin, he was handsome. Dark hair, bright smile a little crooked. Nice ass in those tailored trousers. Nice ass. A bloke could have dreams about that ass. Maybe that was enough. Someone who wasn’t as smart as Draco was, who wouldn’t fight all the time, who wouldn’t talk back, wouldn’t leave in the morning.

Draco swallowed back his pain and strode up to Sohrob. He patted Sohrob’s shoulder as they shook hands, and Draco slid it down to the upper arm. He left it there a beat or two longer and said, “Let’s get something to drink?”

The pub stall was crowded, but it gave Draco a chance to stand pressed against Sohrob, to feel the muscles of his thighs and to imagine him in Draco’s bed.

But in his mind, he kept replacing the brown eyes with green, the crooked smile with Harry’s.

But in the dark, it wouldn’t matter. 

Draco ordered a shot of Talisker, downed it before he left the line, and ordered another. 

“Hard drinking man. I like that. I like you, Draco. Been meaning to talk with you for a while, but word around was that you and Potter were—” Sohrob said and slid his hand to Draco’s hip. When Draco looked at him, Sohrob raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck Potter. Let’s get out of here,” Draco said, his voice ragged from the whiskey. “We can go to my office. “I’ll transfigure the desk.”

_I’ll transfigure the desk. Like I did with Harry._ The whiskey in his empty stomach churned ugly and hot; it was the whiskey and not that he loved Harry. That Harry had left him without a word. 

Sohrob linked his fingers with Draco’s and pushed their way through the crowd toward the exit.

“Draco! Draco!” 

From across the market, Granger’s voice pierced the crowd’s happy noise and sent a cold, sharp bolt of fear down Draco’s spine. He stopped, and when she caught up to him, her face was white with fear. 

“They need us in A&E. Aurors down, Dark Magic damage. We have to go.” She gulped in air, her chest heaving from the run. “Come on.”

Draco forgot everything except ‘Dark Magic damage.’ It was his specialty, but he worried each time that something new would come through that he couldn’t solve, couldn’t reverse.

They disapparated to the A&E, and Hermione slipped on a pool of blood. She went down and scrambled back up as quickly as she could, wincing with pain. “Tell me about the injury?” she demanded as they trailed the nurse to the curtained off area. 

Blood splatter was everywhere; the only thing that bled like that was an artery. 

_The ascending aorta branches off into the left coronary artery and the right coronary artery,_ his mind supplied from medical texts memorized early on. 

“Auror Davis, 27 year old black male, took a direct hit to his right thigh—” 

Neither Hermione nor Draco were listening. Weasley stood next to the gurney, his Auror uniform covered in blood, some splatter, some soaked in great swaths. But he was okay. Good. Healthy.

Draco didn’t recognize the man on the gurney. Average height, brown hair, average face. Completely forgettable if it weren’t for the gaping hole in his thigh. The nurse was applying pressure to the severed femoral artery, but if she moved, blood spurted again with each heartbeat. 

Their Healer training kicked in. Gown on. Hair covered. Scrub up. Listen to report. Assess the patient. Granger took the patient to the right, the one without Dark Magic damage.

_Dark Magic damage can be tricky. Many times it can mask other problems or injuries. Never take Dark Magic damage at face value, _his mentor had taught him.__

__“Alright. Let’s go,” Draco said. “Give me report.”_ _

__“Severed femoral artery, suspect Dark Magic since Auror Weasley said they were on a stakeout all week. Auror Potter had gone undercover when—”_ _

___Potter had been on a stake out all week._ _ _

__Weasley interrupted the nurse. “They realized tonight that it was Harry. They attacked him before I could get in there.”_ _

__“Where is he?” Draco asked, confused. “Did you take him to a different A &E?”_ _

__At that moment, a shrill alarm stopped their conversation. “His blood pressure is dropping, Healer Malfoy.”_ _

___Rapid, shallow breathing._ _ _

___Weak pulse._ _ _

___Rapid heart rate._ _ _

__“Fuck, we’re losing him.” Draco said, straining to keep panic out of his voice. He tried spell after spell, the ones he knew and variations he’d only heard once or twice. “C’mon, love. Once you’re through this, we’ll have a nice sit down and get to know each other.”_ _

__Weasley pointed his wand at the man. “Finite.” Immediately, the man’s body began to change._ _

__Draco turned to Weasley, “Are you fucking kidding me? I can’t help a patient under a Glamour. It affects everything—”_ _

__Draco pushed Weasley away. “Get out of here. Now.”_ _

__When he turned back to the table he saw it._ _

__Harry. His patient was Harry._ _


	12. The Chosen One's Chosen One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on this image 
> 
> Draco realizes he's the chosen one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg, you guys, I'm so sorry. My computer DIED yesterday, like, funeral march dead. So I had to get a new one, and I'm very thankful I was in a position to do that. 
> 
> Thank you for following this. The next fic is called DESIGNING WIZARDS. it's the infancy of wizarding telly, and Blaise and Pansy are in on the ground floor with their shows based on Muggle HGTV. They convince Interior Designer Draco to be on air talent and what better house to begin with than Grimmauld Place?

Over and over he dreamed it. Potter. Blood spurting with each beat of his dying heart. No spell, nothing Draco did helped. He watched Potter breathe his last, with Draco’s name on his lips. He had some sense that it was a dream, thanked God that it was done, only for it to begin again.

“If you sleep like that, you’re going to be stiff all over.”

“That’s what he said,” Draco mumbled into something soft. He had trouble pulling himself out of sleep, and the comfortable weight on his head wasn’t helping. 

_Who said that?_

“Harry,” Draco mumbled again. 

_Harry._

Draco sat upright so quickly he almost knocked his chair out from under him. “You’re awake!”

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Harry answered, his voice raspy from disuse. “Whatever you were dreaming, it must have been a hell of a nightmare.”

“I kept dreaming about you almost—” Draco’s voice cracked as he held back a sob. 

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” Harry interrupted. “We’d been trying to get into this Neo-Death Eater’s group for months, and I got a call that we had visual on them, and I was undercover and I couldn’t tell you and I couldn’t contact you, and I know you’re mad at me, and you probably aren’t even talking to me any more…”

He ran out of steam and dropped his head to his chest, as if he couldn’t bear to hear Draco’s answer. 

“You absolute knob. Let me go get Granger and the Weasle. They’ve been here for a week.”

“Why? What happened?” Harry asked. He held Draco’s hand and almost wouldn’t allow Draco to break the hold. 

Draco dropped a kiss on Harry’s head and went into the hallway to see who was keeping vigil with him.

Draco returned with just Granger and Weasley, leaving the bulk of the Weasleys in the waiting room. They all looked disheveled with a vague funk that a cleansing spell didn’t quite remove. 

“You three look like shit,” Harry said. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember any of it?” Weasley asked, drawing a notepad and quill from his back pocket. “What’s the last thing you _do_ remember?”

Harry struggled to remember. Draco silenced the heart rate monitor which alarmed as his heart beat faster.

“I was inside. They didn’t like me, but they needed me because I knew spells they didn’t, like the Muggle levitation spell. They’re planning to rob Gringott’s, but I kept saying it was stupid because of the security problems. They started fighting—that’s all I remember.”

Potter shrugged and lay back against the bed, his face pale. He was breathing heavily, and Draco checked his vitals. They were both too high, dangerously high. He leaned over and murmured quietly to Harry, whispering that it was alright, that Harry was alright now.

He shooed Granger and Weasley out of the room, under the guise that Harry needed to rest. And while that was true, he wanted to be alone with him, to sort through his feelings. They were a jumble. Partly overjoyed, grateful that Harry was back and safe, but some small part of him wanted to punish Potter, make him ache like Draco.

Draco sat in his chair again and took Harry’s hand. “I get it, Potter. I get that you couldn’t tell me. But I don’t think I can live like that, never knowing if you’re coming home.” 

Harry tried to roll on his side to face Draco but winced in pain and returned to his back. “I won’t do it again. I’ll tell you. Pinky promise.”

Harry held up his hand with his pinky crooked. 

Draco stared. “What the hell, Potter?”

“C’mon. You know. A pinky promise?” Gingerly, Harry took Draco’s pinky and twined it with his. “We never break a pinky promise.”

“Oh, jeez, it’s a Muggle thing, isn’t it? You Muggles are weird.” Draco pretended to be appalled, but Harry had agreed to tell him, and he was pretty sure that was huge.

“Wait. Home?” Potter raised the bed’s head. “You said, knowing if you’re coming home— _to you.”_

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco blushed. _Home to me._ “Good thing you came in tonight. I was about to make a very big mistake with Roshob,” Draco said, keeping his voice light. 

Harry laughed, and Draco wondered if he thought Draco was lying. “Roshob from the 4th floor? Ron told me about him. He’s _not_ your type.”

“And just what is my type?” 

“How about hot Head Auror to be?”

Draco snickered. “You mean Hot _Mess_ Auror?”

“Famous media personality?”

“The one who hides from the media all the time?”

“The Chosen One?”

“As my chosen one?”

Harry smiled and drifted off to sleep for a moment. When his eyes fluttered open again, Draco said, “You are my type. But when you’re healthy, we really are going to talk work confidentiality and our relationship.” 

Harry nodded. “Hey. You said the chosen one’s chosen one. That’s what Rita Skeeter said. In that article.”

Draco rolled his eyes at himself. 

“Why’d you help me find a boyfriend, which you sucked at, by the way?” 

“Because you didn’t want me, and I wanted you to be happy with someone else.”

Harry struggled to stay awake. “But—but—we were dating.” 

_What the fuck, Draco?_

“We were?”

“The cinema. Dinner. Football on the telly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me we were dating?” Draco shook his head, but he was laughing now. The last bit of anger fizzled away knowing Potter was alright, that he would be alright. 

“Why didn’t you know we were dating? For the past year.” Potter belly laughed but groaned at the pain. 

“When were you going to make a move?”

“I was working up to it. These things take time.” Potter’s face was still pale, but embarrassment blotched his cheekbones. “I could probably—” 

The time between Harry’s blinks was getting longer until Draco thought he’d fallen asleep. He pushed his chair back quietly from the bedside and stood up to leave for the first time in a week. 

“Remember your letter to me?” Harry whispered. “When I get out—"

“That’s right, Potter. Once you get out.” 

But Harry was asleep. Draco turned down the lights and opened the door to leave. The hallway windows looked out onto the snowy street. 

The Chosen One’s chosen one. It has a nice ring.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song [Almost (Sweet Music)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=105&v=oe_Tfa_4Zc8&feature=emb_title) by Hozier. The song is poignant to me--"I'm almost me again, she's almost you."


End file.
